


Merciless

by labingi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, On The Barricade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labingi/pseuds/labingi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A filler fic augmenting the scene from the novel where Enjolras executes Le Cabuc.  Combeferre watches and ruminates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merciless

**Author's Note:**

> My translation of the novel is by Charles E. Wilbour. I have used this as a reference but, to make the story non-translation specific, did not quote it exactly.

My friend is become a killer. The thought formed in Combeferre’s mind without words, all of one piece like a painting. 

It happened too fast to comprehend. That man, Le Cabuc, shot an innocent bystander, and Enjolras, descending like an osprey, forced him to his knees and told him he must die. He gave him one minute to collect his thoughts and stood there, eyes on the hands of his watch, while the man whimpered, as if justice were clockwork—all of one piece with the universe. 

_Merciless,_ thought Combeferre. 

The word took form and beat in him: _Merciless, merciless, merciless._ He had always known there was something merciless in Enjolras. Yet he hadn’t ever known it, not till seeing it now. 

It was wrong: Enjolras held his watch in his right hand and a pistol in his left. He was right handed: how could he possibly fire a pistol with his left like that? 

Le Cabuc pleaded at his feet, and his writhing had the quality of Medusa or a Hydra or some such thing made of many snakes: inhuman, yet he was human.

Enjolras replaced his watch in his fob pocket and took his pistol in his right hand--of course. At the report of the pistol, Combeferre jumped, and he must have closed his eyes because he didn’t see the figure fall but there it was slumped and still.

This was Enjolras. This was his way: once he decided to kill a man, that man was dead. He was, like a statue, unmovable.

 _And I will be the same._

But how was it possible that Combeferre could be a killer when he’d taken a vow to do no harm to human life? But no, he’d nothing of the kind. He’d vowed to do no harm in the course of his actions as a physician: it didn’t extend to battle. And yet how could he take a human life when he already knew so intimately the weight of every failure to save one?

He watched the men throw the body, still quivering, over the barricade and thought stupidly, _He should still be alive. Everyone should be alive._

Enjolras turned to face them, pistol in his right hand. He began an impromptu address about the necessity of dispensing swift, stern justice on the barricade. He had to do that. He was their chief and knew when his words were needed. 

But what stuck in Combeferre, what struck him to the core, were Enjolras’ words for himself, the killer: “you will soon see what I’ve sentenced myself to.” 

_We’re going to die here._

The realization came so fast and total that it fell on Combeferre almost like peace. _We will kill, and we will die and zero the account of this bloodshed for those who come after us. And we will live and die together, yet he is alone standing there before us, and he needs to know he is not alone._

“We will share your fate,” he said, surprised yet not surprised by the calm in his own voice. 

And Enjolras said, “So be it.” For a moment, their eyes met, and they understood each other. 

That moment slipped away. 

_We’re going to die here,_ thought Combeferre again, this time with a kind of terror. _What are the odds that we’re not going to die here?_ (What about his parents?)

Enjolras was still speaking, but his words slid past Combeferre: something about Necessity being Fatality—one could hear the capitals—and Fatality versus Fraternity. 

But what had that to do with the two men lying dead? 

Enjolras began waxing allegorical and alliterative about Love and Death: “Love, the future is yours. Death, I use you, but I hate you…” 

It had a ring, but what had it to do with _those_ dead men, the innocent and the executed?

 _I wish he wouldn’t do that,_ thought Combeferre with a touch of desperation, _wander off into these labyrinthine metaphors like he does. This isn’t the time or the place. And anyway, that sort of thing only works with a very particular kind of audience._

That audience did not include Combeferre who preferred his humanity concretely human.

And Satan would exist no more. A strange word on Enjolras’ lips, “Satan.” And Michael would exist no more. Well, it was plain who the archangel was—existing no more... 

Where was Grantaire? He must not hear this. 

And then he remembered Grantaire was asleep—

But then a hand grasped his and it was—not Grantaire, but Prouvaire, intent and sweating and capable of understanding with that poet’s sense of his. Combeferre squeezed his hand in return. Prouvaire’s coat was brown but gray with dust. _We will all be dusty and bloody and killers._

_And we’re going to die. Light, love, and life. Light, love, and life._ The words played over. Had Prouvaire just now been speaking? Combeferre seemed filled suddenly with his voice, his sentiment. But no, of course, the words were Enjolras’. There would be light and love and life. _And, therefore, we’re going to die._

* * *

By and by, the first shock of it over, the barricade buzzed to life again, and Enjolras stirred as if from a dream and disappeared into the wine shop. 

Combeferre gave Prouvaire a pat on the shoulder and followed him. 

He found him in the cellar, surrounded by wine casks, standing with hands at his sides. At the sound of Combeferre’s footfalls, he started and turned. It was then, through the gloom, that Combeferre saw him trembling, like a man in the wind without his coat. That comforted Combeferre. 

_Yes, he is merciless, but he is burdened, thank God, by the necessity of his own mercilessness. Of course, he is. He is my friend._

Combeferre embraced him.

“Don’t—” Enjolras began but then relented and for a second or two—or even four ticks of that watch, his arms were tight around Combeferre, and he was warm and still living, and his coat scratched Combeferre's chin. Then, he pulled away. “I can’t,” he said in clipped tones. “I don’t have the leisure.”

Combeferre nodded. It was too much: that was what he meant. To have become a killer: there would be no time on this barricade—no time left at all—to feel it. 

“It was necessary, my friend, as you said,” said Combeferre.

“And much more will be necessary before the end.” For some seconds he stared at his hands. “I can’t stop.”

At first, Combeferre thought he was referring to the revolution. Then, it came to him that Enjolras was referring to his trembling, which had worsened somewhat since Combeferre had come in.

Combeferre stepped up to him and took his arms firmly. “Yes, you can. If anyone can, you can.”

Gradually, his trembling stilled, and once again their eyes met and they knew each other.


End file.
